


What Mary Doesn't Know

by jacksqueen16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pub Crawl, Smoking, Stag Night, smoke kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a rule, John Watson didn’t smoke. But rules can change on a bloke's stag night, can't they? Written for the Collectiva Diva. #smutnotflowers</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Mary Doesn't Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecollective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/gifts).



> Unbeta'ed. Mistakes are mine.

As a rule, John Watson didn’t smoke. He had, of course. But that was before he became a doctor, when he was young and hiding from his parents in the alley behind their house, chain smoking pack after pack with Harry. 

But even after all these years, he’d be a lying arse if he didn’t admit to craving a cigarette after he’d had too much to drink. Something from his youth lingered at the bottom of one too many pints, and although he and Sherlock had only just finished his pub-crawl themed stag night, he was nearly salivating at the thought of lighting up.

As they stumbled from the cab to the door of 221B, arms around each other’s shoulders for support (okay, his arm was around Sherlock’s waist because he couldn’t reach— _what? fuck off!_ ), he caught a whiff of smoke. Craning his neck, he saw that the cabbie had parked the car, and was indulging in the very vice John _needed_. “Hold on a moment,” he muttered to Sherlock, who was finding it difficult to unlock the front door.  

He reeled back the cab and knocked on the window. “Oi!” 

“I’m off duty,” said the cabbie.

“Yeah, I can see that. Can I bum one?” John slurred, pointing (in the general direction, he hoped) of the pack. Mary didn’t have to know. What harm could it do? It was his fucking stag night thank you very fucking much. 

“For that nice tip, help yourself,” the cabbie held out the pack and after only two tries, John plucked one out. “Light?”

“Please,” said John. He inhaled, and the nicotine instantly charged through his veins. His insides felt like honey and he lazily exhaled the smoke through his nose. “Oh God, that’s good.” 

“Are…are you smoking?” 

“S’a good deduction,” John turned back toward Sherlock, who looked dazed. Smoke curled around his fingers and his head as he took another drag. 

“Let me have some.” 

“Did you unlock the door?” 

“It won’t,” Sherlock swayed. “Dunno what’s wrong.”

“We got pissed, that’s what.” The sidewalk suddenly looked very appealing. He sat down ( _fell down? Shut it!)_ , his back against the door. Drag number three. _Fuck yes_. 

Sherlock plopped down next to him, and with dexterity surprising for a bloke who couldn’t get a key into a keyhole and probably hadn’t gotten drunk since uni, plucked the cig from John’s fingers. Sherlock’s perfect lips molded around the cylinder and John realized too late that he couldn’t stop staring. 

Sherlock looked ethereal with all that smoke around his fucking perfect hair. He sighed, and grinned loosely at his best man. In that moment, he became the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. He opened his mouth, probably to say something ridiculous, when John felt another urge that often came with drinking too much.  

Mary didn’t have to know. What harm could it do? It was his fucking stag night.

He lurched forward, and somehow managed to capture Sherlock’s lips with his own. Beer and smoke mixed in his mouth and he had never tasted anything so delicious. He half expected Sherlock to pull away, regain his aloofness, and open the door as though he’d been sober the entire night. Maybe he would spout off some statistics about sexuality and intoxication. Maybe this whole thing was another experiment. 

But Sherlock’s fingers dropped the cigarette and buried themselves in John’s short hair. Fingernails scratched and hands stroked. John gripped the lapel of Sherlock’s Belstaff and he pulled himself as close as he could. Everything was warm and perfect and—

“Take it inside, will you!” shouted the cabbie.  

Sherlock pulled away and John nearly whined at the loss of the nicotine flavored lips. He wanted more, needed more, needed to kiss Sherlock everywhere and be kissed everywhere. This was better than smoking. This was better than everything. 

“It’s his fucking stag night,” Sherlock said. “What harm can it do?” 

 

 


End file.
